The Letter

 

LIE: I am worthless.

I was never a big fan of school. My favorite part of the day was getting off the school bus. One wintry day, I noticed a large manila envelope sticking out of the mailbox. My heart started to race because I had waited for this big, beautiful envelope for nearly four months. I ran inside the house, and with my winter coat still on, I slowly opened the envelope. I paused for a moment, knowing how important the letter inside was to me. It was either going to make my life better or worse. I braced myself for the rejection, but deeply hoped for an acceptance letter. I pulled the crisp, white paper out of the envelope and read the words right there in black and white. The words I had dreamed about every night. The words that would flip my upside-down world into something new and better. Finally, there was a break in the clouds. I whispered a “thank you” to God before running to the kitchen, where my mother was cooking. I had not considered for a single moment that I would not join the program if I was accepted. Feeling as though nothing good had ever happened to me so far in life, this was a huge deal. It meant I was worth something, at least that’s what I believed. Only one other time had I tried out for something. In fourth grade, I was two weeks from being in the Gold Band, and I could hardly wait. I was literally counting down the hours and days until it was official. I remember thinking how happy I finally was. But then I came home one day, and my saxophone was gone. My mother told me that I didn’t practice enough, and they weren’t paying for it anymore. The saxophone was the first thing I was happy about since being molested. I would find out years later that the truth was, my parents could not afford the payments anymore. But my mother failed to swallow her pride and just tell me the truth. I would have been terribly disappointed, but I would have understood. Here I was again, years later, trying one more time to lean into something I loved and putting myself out there. For the second time, I was brave enough to step out into the big world, and they said, “Yes!” 

My mother was standing over the stove, staring down at the pot of vegetables. She slowly stirred as I poured out my jubilation. She never even turned her head. I read about the program and the cost to enter. “You’re not doing it. It’s a scam,” she said. I stopped mid-sentence. My mind struggled to comprehend what she was saying. “Not doing it? Scam?” I waited for her to continue, to look at me, to do something, anything. But she did nothing. She just stared at the pot of vegetables and kept stirring. No smile, no congratulations. I had waited months for this. My newly earned worth now felt thrown in the trash. I believed I had written a beautiful essay, scam or no scam. I needed more from her in that moment than she could give. I offered to pay for it myself. I was working part-time at McDonald’s after school. “No,” she repeated harshly one last time. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the letter. I read it one last time before throwing it in the trash. My whole life, I had felt like I had no purpose or value. I had fought against those thoughts for so long. I had fought against the desire to take my life because of it, and here I was yet again feeling a confirmation by the very human that birthed me. I was combining self-worth and purpose. If I weren't worth anything to anyone, then I had no purpose or belonging in this world. That moment was less about a writing program, even though, to a fragile teenager, it was everything to me. It would have been nice for my mother to explain to me why she thought it was a scam and to do some research with me. But my mother was fighting her own demons, which goes to show that if we as parents don't deal with our own struggles and trauma, our children will be affected by it also.

Some hurts are harder to heal than others, as I am sure you already know. When it comes to family, I think they can inflict the deepest wounds. Our parents can have the greatest impact on our lives in so many ways. Their nurturing style affects our perspective on life, relationships, and how we see ourselves. In the book “Growing Up Again” by J. Clarke and C. Dawson, chapter six explains the importance of having nurturing parents or caregivers because it shapes who we become as adults. There are six different nurturing positions ranging from abuse to neglect. There's Abuse, Conditional Care, Assertive Care, Supportive Care, Overindulgence, and Neglect. I am sure you can deduce from the list that abuse and neglect, on both ends of the scale, would be the most detrimental for growth. In abuse, the child gets plenty of attention, but it is just the wrong kind of attention. Neglect fails to give the proper amount of attention. Both of these negative influences can cause children to believe they have no self-worth. They create catastrophic repercussions to the child’s learning capacity and understanding of the world around them. 

There are no perfect parents. They all make mistakes and can even teeter between nurturing positions and their own unhealed trauma. What I have learned from being a parent myself is how challenging it is to keep it all balanced. Parenting must be more than just providing our children with food, a roof over their heads, and an education. Without healthy nurturing, all of those things quickly become corrupted. I know that if I hold onto those painful moments as an adult, it will continue to change how I see myself and others, which then naturally overflow onto my own children. Trauma tucked away does not mean it is "dealt with"; it's merely postponed until it refuses to remain in the dark any longer. When it does finally emerge from the depths of your darkness, it will be uglier than you remembered. Counseling, where you can learn coping tools and process through those childhood traumas, allows you to safely and in a healthy way heal. I know that I have not completely forgiven my mother for both the saxophone and the writing program. I may be an adult, but as a kid, those things were very important to me. It's easy to feel childish for still being hurt over something as small as a writing program from my childhood, but I remind myself that it's not really about the writing program. The program only represents something much bigger, feeling unimportant and devalued. Deep wounds, whether they are caused by family or not, often take multiple times of processing through forgiveness to feel free from them. It should be no surprise that it can often take years, maybe even until the day you die. But the plan is to keep working through it no matter what. You work through the forgiveness for yourself, not them.

Art therapy has become a leading way to find nurturing on our own. Creativity is said to release hormones that calm the mind and body. In the field of neuroscience, they say art enhances brain function by impacting brain wave patterns, emotions, and the nervous system (acrm.org). In a nutshell, art can be healing. I have always enjoyed writing and drawing. I gave both up after the writing program that year and did not consider it again for over a decade. It was a family friend who encouraged me to go to college years later, and I graduated with a Bachelor's in Fine Arts. I sculpted, weaved, painted, and drew. It reignited the creativity I had pushed down as a teenager. But some of the messages I received from my mother have always made me feel like everything I do is never good enough, or that at any moment it can be taken away. So I critique myself with a very large magnifying glass and consider that playing fair, but it is not. Critiquing myself so severely only steals away the nurturing part of the process. It's hard, but I must set aside my personal expectations and allow myself to just express what I need to. It is not about being perfect; it is about reaching deep down inside of yourself and sharing it through dance, painting, singing, or whatever it is that helps you heal. Art should never be a comparison game either. When I write, it is my writing, not Shakespeare's. When I paint, it's my painting, not Michelangelo's. Creative arts like music, dance, drama, writing, and visual arts can bring so much peace and joy to your soul. It can become a break from the negative thoughts or habits we often turn to. A huge struggle for those with depression and suicidal thoughts is the battle for control. On that snowy day in Acosta, I had no control over whether I was joining that program or not, but now I can decide for myself. It is not completely lost; it is simply delayed. Once you discover what you enjoy doing, you can control when, how, and where you get involved. You are the creator, and it will open areas in your mind that offer a break from the endless spiral that comes with mental health struggles. I can't change the fact that I had little to no nurturing growing up, but I can fill in that dark hole myself by nurturing myself through the arts.

References:

Clarke, J. Dawson, C. (1998) Growing Up Again. Center City,USA/MN: Hazelden.

American Congress Rehabilitation Medicine. n.d. How the Brain Is Affected By Art. npdevices.com. Accessed 8 September 2023 <https://acrm.org/rehabilitation-medicine/how-the-brain-is-affected-by-art/>

Updated 12/20/23